Glamour

“Is there something wrong?” I asked my therapist, although I was pretty sure that she was supposed to be the one asking me that question.

“No, no,” she said. “It’s just … some of the things you talk about are hard to believe.”

“Do you want me to do another trick?” Shortly after I started seeing Lynn, I made her cat look like a lion to prove my point. Truth be told, it’s the only trick I’ve ever mastered. Oh well. Better than being written up as having an over-active fantasy life.

“No. I believe you,” Lynn said, and was quiet for a moment. Lynn operated her practice out of her home; it wasn’t stuffy, or institutional. Even her clothes were informal: lots of soft cotton. I don’t think I could have been quite as trusting of someone in an office with a leather couch.

Finally, Lynn asked, “So how do you feel about this … this elevation into the Seelie court?”

“I don’t know,” I said. My usual response whenever Lynn asked how I felt about something. “I just … I mean, I was probably the least popular girl in my school. Scrawny. Short. And the ears … people used to make fun of me all the time. Now I’m this high muckety-muck. I don’t know how I’m supposed to deal with that sometimes.”

But I could see that I’d lost her again; she was wrestling with disbelief. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s hard, sometimes. You don’t … you don’t look like that now. You look like a glamour model.”

I nodded. “That’s a very interesting word. Glamour.”

#

Greysmith was waiting for me when my session ended.

“Really, Amber,” he said, “I don’t see why you come here.”

“She’s helping me,” I replied.

He rolled his eyes, and waved me toward the car. A Jaguar, this time. Greysmith had a weakness for expensive cars. It looked great, but it had the faint sparkle of glamour, and it drove like a Honda Civic. We rode for a while in silence.

“House Birchbark,” he said suddenly. Pop quiz time.

“Uh … a griffin and a dragon on a green shield. Lord Birchbark is Seelie. The family despises House Willowholm, and for whatever stupid reason, is insulted if you serve them meat from hoofed animals.”

“Very good, Amber,” he said, absent-mindedly stroking his silvery mane of a beard. “We’ll make a Pennydreadful out of you yet.”

Yeah, I belong to House Pennydreadful. Yes, I know that’s a stupid name. Greysmith worked for my father, Lord Pennydreadful of the Seelie Court. A father that I didn’t know existed until I was eighteen years old.

“So when am I gonna see this Fog Lord guy?” I asked. The Fog Lord was the head of House Squallsplitter—the Hatfields to our McCoys.

“Patience, Amber,” Greysmith said, and drove on for a while. “You think like them,” he said after a long silence. When Greysmith said them, he meant humans.

“Funny, that,” I replied.

“You’re Fay. You have all the time in the world to learn about your enemy, but you’re impatient. It’ll be your downfall, mark my words.” He frowned, and made low growly noises in his throat. “Expect to meet the Fog Lord in about fifty years. Maybe sixty.”

“And in the meantime,” I said acidly, “I’ll just keep getting my charm school lessons from you, right?”

He didn’t answer.

#

Back at my apartment, Greysmith wanted me to serve tea. The Fay tea service is this big, elaborate ritual; and if you don’t get all parts of it correct, you’ll offend your host or your guest. I swear, Queen Elizabeth has fewer protocols than the Fay; it’s like hanging out with a dozen Miss Manners.

The phone rang.

“Yeah?” I answered. “You’re kidding.” Pause. “No, send her up.” I hung up. Greysmith was still waiting for me to rearrange something on the tea table.

“My mother’s here,” I said.

Greysmith’s mouth puckered in displeasure. “I beg your leave, then, milady.”

“Yeah, go,” I said. He walked into the hall closet and shut the door. I keep my portal in there.

I shifted my appearance into my family look: a glamour that looks enough like my original face that somebody could believe that I was just a late bloomer.

A few minutes later, the doorbell rang. I took a deep breath and squared my shoulders.

“Hello Angie,” mother said. Yeah, human name for humans; faerie name for faeries. Glamour isn’t just about appearances. My mother gave me a brief, hollow-feeling hug. As usual, she smelled of hairspray.

She scanned the apartment, the surprise evident on her face. “This is an awfully big place.” It was true; it was a good-sized apartment, with a huge picture window that looked out over the waterfront. My faerie father gives me a pretty sizable living allowance. It probably helps him feel less guilty about the fact that I almost never get to see him.

“I didn’t know that you were in the city,” I said.

“Is it pricey?” she asked. I’d told her that I worked as a receptionist. Truth is, my real job has been learning the rules of Fay society.

“It’s not bad. What brings you to Toronto?” But she wasn’t paying any attention to my questions. I narrowed my eyes in annoyance.

She ran her fingertip across the length of one of my shelves. “What about this furniture? How do you afford all this?” I wondered if she thought that I had some secret job as a high paid call-girl or something.

“I have a roommate,” I lied. “Most of this stuff isn’t mine. Are you in town long?”

“Oh,” she said. “And what’s your roommate’s name?” And there was just something about the way she asked; I knew she didn’t really care what my fictional roommate’s name was. She wanted to know whether my roommate was a man or a woman.

“Chris,” I said.

#

“What are you feeling, now?” Lynn asked during my next therapy session.

“I don’t know,” I replied.

“How does your body feel?”

“I don’t know.”

Lynn’s eye glanced sideways, over in the direction of the clock. Yeah, I know I was being difficult. I was in a bad mood. I get that way when I have to spend time with my mother.

“The way you’re sitting is all clenched up,” she said after a while.

“My mother drives me crazy. I hate feeling like this. I want to know what it takes to get past this.”

“What it takes is a willingness to look at the feelings that have developed.”

I frowned. “I don’t know what I feel,” I said.

“Doesn’t that suggest something to you?” she asked. “You’ve numbed yourself. Your feelings have been neglected for so long that you’ve learned to deaden yourself to them. But they’re still there. They still affect you.”

I sat there for a few moments. Lynn keeps a box of Kleenex in the centre of the coffee table; sometimes I play a game with myself where I see how long I can hold in the tears that are always threatening to come out during these sessions.

“What were you thinking when your mother came over?” Lynn asked.

I pondered this. “I thought I might impress her. I thought that if she saw my fancy apartment, maybe she wouldn’t rag on me about getting a better job, or getting married, or all the other million things she goes on about.”

“Is it possible that you hoped that she’d say something nice? Maybe compliment you?”

“My mother doesn’t do that. Nothing you do is good enough for her.”

“But maybe you still look for it.”

“I don’t need that from her.”

“What are you feeling now?”

My shoulders were tight. I think I was unconsciously trying to pull my head into my body, like a turtle. “I don’t know,” I said.

#

I climbed into the Mercedes and slammed the door.

“Good session?” Greysmith asked.

I grunted.

“You know, ladies of the Fay don’t grunt.”

“This one does,” I said.

Greysmith sighed. “One day, Amber, you need to realize that there are things that are done, and things that are not done. Our society is ruled by protocol. The Fog Lord will eat you alive if you cross a boundary you’re not supposed to cross, and if you’ve alienated the Seelie court with your unmannered ways, there’ll be no one to catch you when you fall.”

“Wow, that was deep,” I said, blandly. “Can you drop me off at Grappa?”

Everything about Greysmith seemed to sag, then. He didn’t say a word for the rest of the car ride.

#

I loved the smell of Grappa: fried garlic, tomato sauce and warm olive bread. One of my old schoolmates was getting married, and a bunch of us crowded into the elegant restaurant. I picked a seat near Tina and Lisa.

“Hey, Angie! Long time, no thee,” Lisa said. Lisa had her lisp, Tina had her brains, Marcie was overweight and I had those ears. We were the obvious targets in our school, and found safety in numbers.

“You look really different,” Tina said.

“I finally found a hairdresser that could give some body to my hair,” I lied. “How’s the computer stuff going?”

“Good, actually. We IPO’ed last month.”

I nodded, but really I had no idea what she’d just said. Tina looked really different, too. She still had those pop-bottle glasses, but she was wearing an expensive, tailored pantsuit. And she was wearing make-up, which she never did in school. She made me a little bit uneasy. Afraid, I suppose, that she’d overtaken me. Truth is, although they were my friends, I used to look down on Tina and Lisa. I suppose I liked hanging around with them ‘cause they made me feel like I wasn’t at the complete bottom of the pyramid. Yeah, I know that’s pretty shallow.

“Where’s Marcie?”

“Didn’t you hear?” Lisa said. “Her thtore burnt down.” Marcie and her husband had an appliance store in Mississauga.

“The police are saying arson,” Tina added. “They think either Marcie or Tom did it. Y’know, for the insurance. The police have been harassing them for days.”

“Jeezuz,” I said. I wanted to ask if either of them thought Marcie did it, but wasn’t sure how.

And that’s when I noticed the guy at the bar. Gorgeous. But he also had that sparkle to him. He was wearing glamour.

I made some excuse to leave the table, and head over to the bar. Lisa watched me the whole time, her expression an odd combination of incredulity and hero-worship.

#

His name was Lorien, and he belonged to House Wolvesbane. Wolvesbane and Pennydreadful had an alliance pact, so technically he was on our side. His true face was narrow and canine, and he smelled like trees. His glamour face was Hispanic and square-jawed, with a slight pout and a long ponytail. He had even added the smell of expensive aftershave to the glamour.

We went back to my apartment, and there was this awkward exchange where he wouldn’t actually enter unless I invited him in using all the proper phrases and titles, and references to our respective Houses. Greysmith, of course, wasn’t around when I needed him.

Lorien scanned the apartment, and sniffed the air. “I understand that you know the boggart, Greedle?” he said.

“Yeah,” I said. Greedle had sworn fealty to my father, and would sometimes drop by with Greysmith. Greedle wasn’t too bright, but human things fascinated him. He liked to spend time in my kitchen playing with the appliances. He especially liked the waffle iron.

Oh. Shit shit shit.

“Greedle caused the fire at Marcie’s store,” I said.

Lorien nodded.

“I haven’t seen him for weeks.”

Lorien frowned. “He came through two weeks ago. I assumed that he was staying with you.”

“No,” I said.

“Very well. I should take my leave of you. Do you have a portal?”

“Oh,” I said, surprised and maybe disappointed. “In the hall closet.”

“Should we have sex first?” he asked. One thing I like about the Fay is the directness.

#

“Greysmith is gone,” I said.

“Gone?” Lynn asked.

“I hurt his feelings.”

“How?”

“I was snide with him. The Fay are peculiar about stuff like that.”

“You’ve talked about their obsession with manners.”

“They’re a bit simple,” I said. “You’re either an ally, or an enemy. If you offend an ally, they’ll tell you, and you must make amends or become an enemy.”

“So can’t you just make amends?”

“It’s more complicated than that. I’m a high muckety-muck and he’s sworn fealty to my father. He’s not just an ally; he’s like a servant or something, and so any criticism reflects badly on him.” I shook my head. “I’m so stupid,” I said.

Lynn shifted in her chair. “When you were living with your parents—your human parents—how were things communicated?”

“They weren’t,” I replied.

“How did your parents show affection?”

“They didn’t.”

“People need affection,” Lynn said.

“Did you learn that in therapist school?” I asked. “I’m sorry,” I added quietly. “That just came out.”

“Do you think that maybe you developed behaviors that would help you find out whether or not people cared about you? Maybe you learned to lash out at people because then at least you’ll know that they care about what you say.”

I didn’t say anything.

“What are you feeling?”

“I think I’m a terrible person,” I said. “I’m mean, and selfish.”

“You’re a beautiful and intelligent woman,” she said. How did she know that I craved flattery?

That was it. Game over. Tears, 1: Amber, 0. I reached over and grabbed the Kleenex.

#

I parked the car, and put on the hazards. I jumped out and stood before the Princes’ Gate, the giant, masonry archway that served as the main entrance to the Canadian National Exhibition grounds. There was traffic along Lakeshore, even at that late hour; but I figured that they wouldn’t notice anything. I suppose I could have done this at home, but not with the car and all.

I wasn’t very good at summonings, and Greysmith knew that. I remembered something he’d once said: “A portal is not merely a door, Amber; it must be crafted, not made.” The Princes’ Gate was probably the most crafted thing I knew of.

In my hand, I clutched a shiny grey stone. “Greysmith,” I said. “I am holding your token; attend me.”

The air in front of me blurred, and Greysmith stepped through. He knelt. “I await your instruction, Lady Amber,” he said sourly.

“You used to just call me Amber,” I said.

“That wouldn’t be proper.”

I bit my lip for a moment. “It was wrong of me, Greysmith. I’m sorry. I was horrible to you.”

“It is not my place to comment.”

“I got you a Porsche,” I said, and I pointed in the direction of the car. He looked up. “It’s real, not glamour. It even has one of these,” I said, and pushed the little button. The car went beep-beep, and the doors locked. “Oh, I almost forgot: I give this to you free of strings.” There’s a whole lot of messy stuff about gift giving in Fay culture.

“Milady,” he said, stunned. And then he started to cry. Big wuss. “Oh, milady,” he said, “you are too good to me. You were well within your rights to chastise me.”

“No I wasn’t, Grey,” I said, “no matter what the rules say.”

#

We were going way too fast along the QEW. It was the first time that Greysmith had driven a standard, and he liked shifting gears.

“Their machines have a sort of cachet among our people right now,” he said. “They’re clever beings.”

I nodded. “Is there a real Robin Goodfellow?” I asked.

“No. Shakespeare had no idea what he was talking about.”

“Grey,” I asked, “why did my father leave me with humans?”

“I don’t know the full details. Something about protecting you from the Fog Lord.”

“My human parents think that I’m their daughter. They brought me home from the hospital and everything.”

“But you were a cuckoo.” Cuckoos leave their eggs in the nests of other birds.

“Was there ….” I was almost afraid to ask. “Was there another baby?”

“I really don’t know,” he said, and shifted gears again. The Toronto skyline whizzed by us.

#

“Hu … Hello?” Marcie answered.

“Hi Marcie, it’s Am … Angie,” I said, and shifted the phone a bit.

“Oh, hi,” she replied, somberly.

“We missed you the other night.”

A pause. “Yeah, well we’ve got a lot going on.”

“I know. I heard.” A longer pause. “Look, Marcie, I know things are really bad, and I know the police are hassling you unfairly. If there’s anything I can do, please let me know.”

“That’s really kind,” she said, but I could hear that she was fighting back tears.

“Are you holding up okay?” I asked.

“I’m fine,” she said, and was quiet for a while. “Angie, if I ask you something, will you promise never to repeat it?”

“Of course, Marcie.”

“You don’t think Tom would have done this, do you?” This is what the stress had done to her. She didn’t trust her husband.

“No, Marcie. I know he wouldn’t.”

“Oh,” she said, and I don’t know if she was convinced.

#

“I remember coming home from school once, when I was about ten. There were a bunch of suitcases in the living room; my parents were about to leave on vacation for two weeks. Hawaii. They arranged for my aunt to come and stay with me, but I remember thinking, ‘When were you going to tell me this?’” I looked down at the floor.

“What are you feeling, now?”

“I feel … guilty,” I said.

“Guilty?” Lynn asked.

“They weren’t the kind of parents you see in the TV movie of the week, or anything. They didn’t abuse me.”

“No, I didn’t think so.”

“So why do I hate them so much?”

“Sometimes, if there’s something overt, like abuse for instance, at least you have something to blame. When you’re dealing with neglect, you can never put your finger on what they’re doing. It’s because they’re not doing.”

Is that what this is? I wondered. Neglect? “Y’know, I used to pretend that they weren’t really my parents,” I said. “I used to imagine that I was a … a princess or a gypsy, and that my real parents would come back for me, and life would be so much better.”

Lynn sat in silence.

“Well, I got that,” I said. “My faerie father did come back for me, and he’s just as distant as my human parents.”

“And how does that make you feel?”

“Disappointed. Embarrassed. Like even my fantasies have failed me. And then I start thinking things. Like maybe my human parents could somehow sense that I wasn’t human. Maybe they just couldn’t feel anything for me because subconsciously they knew that I’m not really their daughter. And I hate feeling like I’m making excuses for them.” I was shaking. “I can’t forgive them.”

#

The door buzzer chimed. I looked inquiringly at Greysmith; he shrugged his shoulders. The concierge hadn’t announced anyone.

“Who is it?” I asked.

“Lady Amber,” the voice said, “I stand outside your door, and I beg sanctuary.” It was Greedle.

I threw the door open and grabbed the boggart by the scruff of his … uh … neck, I guess. “Get in here, you!” I said.

“Milady, milady,” he cooed, “they’re after me. Hide me, please.”

“Listen, you. Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Do you know that Marcie and Tom are my friends?”

“Nooooo,” Greedle said. He held his hands in front of his face and I could see that they had waffle indentations on them. He liked to waffle things.

“Because of you, Marcie and Tom are in a lot of trouble. You burned down their store, and you’ve probably ruined their marriage as well.” Greedle scooted around behind the couch.

“You stupid little worm. What the hell were you thinking?” I screamed. “Were you even using your head at all?”

“Amber, stop!” Greysmith said. “He’s just a boggart. He can’t handle fury like that.” I didn’t stop. I continued to yell, to lash out with blistering phrases.

But I stopped when I realized that I’d heard some of those phrases out of my mother’s mouth.

I could hear him behind the couch: “Ow. Ow. Ow. Greedle bad. Ow. Greedle bad. Owwwwwwww.”

I gritted my teeth and went to the knick-knack shelf and picked up a small statue of a wolf. Then I went to the hall closet. “Packleader Lorien,” I said, “I am holding your token. I request your presence.”

The closet opened and Lorien emerged, suave and dark.

“He’s behind the couch,” I said. “Get him out of my sight.”

#

Later, I tried to hide out in my bedroom; Greysmith knocked on the door. “Milady,” he said, “Packleader Lorien requests an audience.”

I sighed. “Fine. Send him in.”

“Milady?”

“He’s seen my bedroom, Grey. Send him in, already.”

Lorien came in and sat beside me on the bed. His shoulder touched against mine.

“What do we do about Marcie and Tom?” I asked.

Lorien shrugged. “We can’t make things as they were, but I think we can make things better than they are now. If someone were to confess to the arson, for example, the police would stop harassing your friends. I think that a bit of glamour could make that happen.”

“And what about Greedle?”

“We sealed him in a jar, and hid the jar under a mountain. We’ll let him out in twenty years or so.”

“And what then?”

“He’ll still have fealty to your family, and he can return to his duties having atoned for his offense.”

I was trying to decide how I felt about that. I mean, twenty years is a long time, but for the Fay it’s not like it’s most of your life or anything.

“He hurt my friends,” I sniffled.

Lorien thought for a moment. “I sympathize; really, I do. But he doesn’t understand what he did. He doesn’t understand about stores, or livelihoods, or the stresses that your friends were under. He’s just a boggart who thinks that waffle irons make pretty patterns. Under faerie law, his infraction results in banishment or confinement. Such punishments are strict, but direct, and without long-term consequences.

“On the other hand,” he continued, “I suspect that few faeries have been subjected to the fury and bitterness that you directed at him, and I imagine that he will carry that with him for the rest of his existence.”

He said all this dispassionately; and I really wanted him to pull me closer, to hold me, because I really felt worthless, then.

#

A week later, as Greysmith and I were working on the tea service again, the closet door opened. A red-faced man with muttonchops and a nineteenth century British military uniform emerged. He wore jackboots and carried a riding crop.

He glared at Greysmith. “Leave us,” he said.

“Yes, my lord,” Greysmith replied, and slunk away to the hall.

“Hello father,” I said.

He removed his helmet and gloves, and set these on an end table. “Good morning, Amber,” he said.

“I’ve just made some tea.”

“Ah, jolly good,” he said. I’m pretty sure it was affectation.

“To what do I owe the honour?”

“Mm,” he grunted. “This woman—the therapist—Lynn. Stop seeing her.”

My heart sank as I poured his tea. I tried to compose myself. “Do you take sugar?” I asked.

“Please,” he said.

“It’s over there,” I replied, in clear violation of protocol.

His nostrils flared for a moment, and then he grinned, nastily.

“So you’re upset,” he said.

“You think?”

“Oh, Amber, you’re priceless,” he said.

“Do I amuse you father? Me, the unmannered Lady of the Fay? Are you proud of what I’ve become?” I crossed my arms. “Because everything I am, I owe to you.”

He sat there, still grinning.

“You stick me in a human home with those horrible people,” I continued. “And you want me to give up the one thing that seems to be helping me. What kind of father are you?”

“One who has made difficult decisions,” he replied immediately.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You speak badly of your foster parents, but look at all they’ve given you. You are a daughter of the Fay, and will therefore command the normal powers of the faerie. But you’ve had a human life, too.” He reached over and retrieved the sugar.

“The humans have their glamours as well,” he continued. “Look at you. You put on airs of self-sufficiency. You act like you don’t need anything or anyone. You have emotional defenses that most faeries would envy. The Fog Lord would never get close to hurting you. And you’re a scrapper, Amber. You know how to wound people. You’d take out his throat.”

This was the most honest moment I'd ever had with him. And I don't think I really knew how to process what I was hearing. My father kept speaking.

“I originally got the idea from the British Empire, you see. Absent fathers. Stiff upper lips. And they raised the armies and the generals who have stormed into Africa, and India, and the Americas. The humans have a hardness to them that we have never had. An ability to block out things that are inconvenient.”

He paused to sip his tea fussily. “As a culture, the Fay don’t change much. We’re mired in customs that are centuries old, and our petty rivalries are equally ancient. We need a new breed, Amber, and the first of that breed had to be reared in the human world.”

I opened my mouth. My brain tried to catch up—tried to figure out what it was that I wanted to say. “Lynn says that people need affection,” was all I managed.

“That woman will make you weak,” he said. “And we need you strong.” He drained his cup and stood up. He picked up his gloves and helmet and turned toward the hall.

“Father?” I said weakly. Pleadingly.

He stood there a moment, facing away from me. I could see his hesitation. Then he straightened his back and put on his helmet. “I commend you on the tea, Amber,” he said. “Quite a tasty infusion. Good morning to you.” Then he swooshed his riding crop into place under his arm, and headed, militarily, for the closet.

#

“I’ve had some rather … confusing news.”

“Oh?” Lynn replied.

“I’ve discovered that my father abandoned me here, on purpose.”

“You said it was to protect you from your family’s enemies.”

“No. It was all part of some horrible socialization plan. My father left me here to toughen me up.”

“And how do you feel about that?” she asked.

I hesitated. “Good,” I said.

“Good?” Lynn repeated.

“Yeah. I mean, it’s okay, see? It wasn’t neglect. He was thinking about my best interests.” I remembered how my father looked, in that moment of hesitation. He didn't have what I have; he couldn't really conceal all of the conflicted emotions behind his choices. I knew, in that moment, why he stayed away.

Lynn frowned, and thought for a moment. “Do you want to know what I think?” she asked. I said nothing and she continued. “There comes a point in the therapy process when the emotional walls start to come down. And that’s scary. Suddenly, you feel vulnerable, and you look back on those walls and mistakenly think that they were a form of strength. But they’re just an illusion of strength.”

An illusion of strength, I thought, and I knew she didn't understand. Couldn't understand glamour. And for once, I knew what my father wanted of me, and I wasn't about to disappoint him.

This wasn’t going to be easy; I wasn't very good at rewrites.

“I’m not going to be coming here, any more,” I said. “And it’s important that you not remember anything that I’ve told you about the Fay. It would be better if you remembered me as an annoyingly old-fashioned housewife who has been seeing you to deal with some banal dissatisfaction in life.”

Lynn looked confused. Disoriented. She shook her head, and finally said, “I’m sorry—what did you say?”

I was already wearing the new glamour. “Oh, just that I won’t be able to come here any more, dear. John needs his dinner on the table, doncha know.”

B.C. Holmes lives in Toronto. Her writing has appeared in Aboriginal Science Fiction, Strange Horizons, On Spec and others. Her website is at http://www.bcholmes.org

This story first appeared in On Spec Magazine. On Spec is a quarterly journal of Fantastic literature showcasing quality works by predominantly Canadian writers and artists.